


Unto the Third and Forth Generations

by introvertandproud



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: (but no actual), (mostly non-sexual), Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF David Rossi, Blood and Injury, David Rossi is Spencer Reid’s Parent, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff, Gen, Guilt, Hurt David Rossi, Hurt Spencer Reid, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Nightmares, Non-Consensual Touching, Panic Attacks, Protective David Rossi, author had several breakdowns writing this, but like, choo choo mf all aboard the ANGST train, creepy unsub, it didn’t just run away from me it fled the fucking country, little bit of, major angst, this was supposed to be a one-shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:02:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28017426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/introvertandproud/pseuds/introvertandproud
Summary: He deserved to be thanked. He deserved to be thanked for spending twenty years of his life in this hellhole day after day. He deserved to be thanked for keeping people safe from the monsters inside it’s walls. Maybe he should show them just what those monsters were capable of. Two FBI agents were coming to the prison for an interview. An interview in A-Block. His block. It was perfect. He was done being ignored. Tomorrow they would see him. And they would never forget him.
Relationships: David Rossi & The BAU Team, Spencer Reid & David Rossi, Spencer Reid & The BAU Team
Comments: 153
Kudos: 242





	1. Sex Appeal for a Serial Killer

**Author's Note:**

> This unholy thing sucked the life out of me... enjoy!
> 
> Note: I probably should have been more clear, but there isn’t any rape in this, explicit or otherwise. There are mentions of it, but it never actually happens. And the tagged nonconsensual touching has some sexual undertones, but it’s strictly above the belt

Most people tended to think that an FBI agent’s job was the most exciting thing in the world. An endless adrenaline rush of catching killers in the act and saving people just in the nick of time. Walking around with tinted sunglasses and a loaded gun hidden under a dark suit. Mysterious, enigmatic, dangerous.

What most people didn’t understand was that catching killers and saving people was just half the job. And right now, the only thing enigmatic about Supervisory Special Agent Spencer Reid, FBI, was his handwriting.

The case report had started out legible enough. But as it had dragged on and on, becoming more tedious by the minute, it had devolved into something resembling a child’s scribbles.

Unless Hotch planned on hiring the ‘Reid translator’ that Morgan and Prentiss so often joked about, he would probably have to rewrite it. As if he hadn’t already spent enough time on it. He had started it eleven minutes and fifty-six seconds ago, an atrociously long time compared to his average of four minutes and forty-seven seconds.

“Reid.”

Reid eagerly looked up from his paperwork at the voice. Avoidance wouldn’t make the report disappear, but he figured his brain deserved a break.

“Yeah?” he responded, hoping he didn’t sound too excited.

Rossi was standing beside his desk with a thick file in his hand.

“You got a minute?”

“Yes!” Reid answered a little too quickly. “What is it?”

Rossi raised an eyebrow and glanced down at Reid’s paperwork.

“Are you sure you’re not too busy?”

Reid quickly closed the file as if doing so would get rid of it entirely.

“Nope. What do you need?”

Rossi studied him with an amused look.

“Right,” he said, taking a seat on the edge of Reid’s desk, “well, I have a proposition for you.”

Reid sat up straighter, intrigued.

“What is it?”

Rossi glanced at the file in his hands.

“I have a custodial tomorrow and I could use some company. Interested?”

Reid nodded vigorously. He’d done lots of custodial interviews, but never one with Rossi. It was bound to be a fascinating experience.

“Yeah,” Reid accepted with an excited smile, “who’s it with?”

“Daniel Roy Wilkins.” Rossi handed him the file, which was just as heavy as it was thick. “He was a serial killer from North Carolina. I caught him back in ‘94.”

Reid opened the file to find a mugshot of a smug man in his early forties staring back at him.

“You never wrote about him,” he thought out loud.

Rossi shrugged.

“He wasn’t all that interesting. But it might still be good for us to pick his brain, so—“ he gestured to the files as he stood up— “read up. We leave at eight tomorrow.”

Reid nodded, already beginning to skim through the file as Rossi walked away.

“What was that about?” Prentiss asked as she sat down at her desk with a cup of coffee.

“Rossi wants me to come with him to interview a guy that he caught eighteen years ago,” Reid told her enthusiastically.

Prentiss took a sip of her coffee, watching him over the brim with a furrowed brow.

“What’s the catch?”

Reid paused in his skimming to look at her with confusion.

“What do you mean?”

“You know Rossi.” Prentiss nodded towards the man’s office. “Anything related to his career before us, he insists on doing alone. So what’s the catch?”

“Why does there have to be a catch?”

Reid looked back at the file, hoping his colleague hadn’t caught the flash of doubt in his eyes. What she was saying made sense, even if he didn’t want to accept it.

“We’ve been paired together for interrogations a lot recently,” he suggested, “maybe Rossi just wants to use our strategy to our advantage.”

Prentiss scoffed.

“What strategy? Snarky cop and snarkier cop?”

“At least it’s not good cop, bad cop,” Reid muttered, flipping a page.

“Oh, I didn’t realize it was a competition, Dr. Reid,” Prentiss laughed.

Reid smiled as he ran his eyes over the page then turned it. Seven grinning driver’s license photos looked back at him. His smile faded and he heaved a disappointed sigh.

“What is it?” Prentiss asked.

“The catch.”

“Yeah?”

Reid held up the file, giving her a clear view of the photos of seven men about his age with medium length light brown hair that Wilkins had brutally beaten and sexually assaulted.

Prentiss grimaced.

“That’s rough. I’ve been there.”

Reid took the file back, frowning at the victims’ photos.

“Is that the only reason Rossi wanted me to come?”

Prentiss shrugged.

“Ask him.”

Reid looked at Rossi’s office, where the older agent could be seen pouring over a file at his desk through the window.

“I will.”

“Sex appeal for a serial killer,” Prentiss mused as Reid stood with the file and took the steps up to the mezzanine. “If you want, I can give you some pointers,” she called after him.

Reid frowned. ‘Sex appeal for a serial killer’ wasn’t exactly the kind of thing he expected to be doing when he joined the FBI, but it wouldn’t be the first time his expectations had been proven wrong. He knocked as he opened Rossi’s door.

“Hey,” the older agent said, looking up, “what’s up, kid?”

Reid showed the file in his hands.

“I saw the victims’ photos.”

Something like guilt passed over Rossi’s face, like a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar. He gestured to one of the chairs that faced his desk.

“Sit.”

Reid did as he was told, perching on the edge of the chair with the file in his lap.

“Is that the only reason you wanted me to come?”

Rossi leaned forward with his elbows on his desk to look Reid in the eyes.

“It is a big part of it.”

The younger agent dropped his gaze, disappointed.

“But it isn’t all of it,” Rossi added. Reid looked back up as he continued. “You’re a good interrogator, and you and I work well together. As far as I’m concerned, having you there can only make this interview better.”

A small smile broke out on Reid’s face.

“Really?”

Rossi returned his smile fondly.

“Really. But I understand if you’re not comfortable with this, _Cucciolo_. I still have a rapport with Wilkins, I think I can drag some information out of him.”

Reid pondered the offer. Rossi was giving him an out, and he wouldn’t be disappointed if he took it. But then again, a chance to do a custodial with the man who was once his idol was hard to pass up. How bad could it be?

“I’ll do it.”

Rossi looked at him with surprise.

“Are you sure?”

Reid nodded, his mind made up.

“Yeah, I’m sure. Besides, Emily and JJ do it all the time. I can handle it.”

Rossi smiled, looking at Reid with a touch of pride.

“Okay.” He sat back in his chair. “Well, if I’m gonna dangle you in front of a serial killer, I might as well buy you dinner.”

A thought occurred to Reid and he smirked mischievously.

“Can you make me dinner?”

Rossi narrowed his eyes.

“What do you want?”

Reid pretended to think hard on his answer.

“Carbonara á la Rossi?”

Rossi studied him with a suspicious glint in his eye.

“Deal,” he said, holding out his hand.

Reid shook it, still smirking.

“Alright,” Rossi waved a hand toward the door, “go read the rest of that file. And get some sleep tonight, we’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

Reid nodded with a smile as he left Rossi’s office and returned to his desk. Prentiss looked up once he sat down.

“So?” she prompted.

Reid turned his smile on her.

“You still have those pointers?”

•••

He got up.

He went to work.

He went home.

He used to love his job. He had had it for over twenty years. He was good at it. He knew that.

No one else did.

He got up.

He went to work.

He went home.

His job was hard. He had to deal with the scum of the earth. But he did it. And did anyone thank him?

No.

He got up.

He went to work.

He went home.

He deserved to be thanked. He deserved to be thanked for spending twenty years of his life in this hellhole day after day. He deserved to be thanked for keeping people safe from the monsters inside it’s walls.

Maybe he should show them just what those monsters were capable of.

He got up.

He went to work.

He got his weekly schedule. Two FBI agents were coming to the prison for an interview. An interview in A-Block. His block.

It was perfect.

He went home.

He was done being ignored. Tomorrow they would see him.

And they would never forget him.


	2. A Study in Architecture

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: I probably should have been more clear, but there isn’t any rape in this, explicit or otherwise. There are mentions of it, but it never actually happens. And the tagged nonconsensual touching has some sexual undertones, but it’s strictly above the belt

The prison was massive, a central building that rose several stories high, surrounded by smaller wings that reached out from the source like so many arms. The architecture was a gothic style, bricks worn and stained, giving the whole place an appearance of ancientness. The prison had survived all these years, ground down by time, but had never lost it’s sturdiness or its air of cruelty. It wasn’t all that different from some of the people housed within its walls.

A man of about Rossi’s age was waiting outside the entrance when they arrived. Rossi parked the SUV in the small private lot between the tall, wrought iron barred gate and ornate double doors that Reid couldn’t help but stare at as they got out, files in hand.

“Agent Rossi,” the man said as they walked up to meet him. “always a pleasure. It’s great to have you guys here.”

Rossi shook the warden’s offered hand.

“Great to be here, warden. This is my colleague, Dr. Reid.” Rossi pointed to Reid who was a few steps behind him, still gazing at the architecture.

“Oh.” The warden extended his hand to Reid. “Good to meet you, doctor. I’m Warden Foster.”

Reid made a movement toward Foster’s hand, but abandoned it in favor of an awkward wave. The warden turned a puzzled look on Rossi, who just raised his eyebrows, daring the man to comment.

“Well, anyway,” Foster shook off his confusion and gestured toward the doors, “we’re going to A-Block. Follow me.”

The agents followed the warden through the door that he held open for them. Reid stole one last look at the imposing bars of the locked gate before the heavy wooden door closed behind him with a dull thud.

The interior of the prison matched the exterior. The foyer’s high ceiling rose up into elaborately decorated arches, the sharp edges of the swirling carvings shaved down by age. Whatever light may have been able to shine through the high cathedral windows was drowned out by the artificial glow of the industrial lights that ran the length of the ceiling.

The lights weren’t the only modern features that had been installed since the prison’s construction. Barred gates closed off the foyer from the rest of the building and a bank of small lockers sat against one wall.

“You can go ahead and leave your guns here,” Foster told them, waving his hand toward the lockers.

Rossi and Reid took off their guns and put them in the lockers, leaving the keys on a small table along the wall. Once they had done that, Foster waved to a security camera set on the wall facing the gate. After a few seconds, the gate slid open with a loud buzz and they went through.

“Warden, why did you wave at the camera?” Reid asked as they walked, passing a visitor area where a few people sat speaking with prisoners.

“All our controls are centralized in one room,” Foster explained. “It’s easier to control that way.”

Reid frowned.

“Don’t you worry about mutiny? What if a prisoner got into that room?”

Foster laughed, as if Reid’s questions were silly.

“That room is guarded 24/7. The only people getting in there are me or the guards. Trust me, we’re perfectly safe.”

Reid’s frowned deepened. He wasn’t sure whether to categorize the warden’s attitude as simple pride for his prison or arrogance. He glanced at Rossi for guidance, and the older agent shrugged. It was a bit of both.

“A-Block’s right through here.” Foster waved to open another gate, the sounds of low voices drifting in from beyond it.

Stepping through the gate may as well have been like stepping into the future. Here, the gothic architecture abruptly ended and was replaced by modern cement. New corridors branched off from four walls of the pentagonal room, the fifth holding the only entrance. Cells lined the walls of each corridor, three on each side, down to four small interview rooms, each with a table and a few chairs.

Reid took in his new surroundings with astonishment. Rossi seemed to share his sentiment.

“This is new,” he observed.

“Oh, yes,” Foster said proudly, “It was added on about ten years ago. I’ve gotta say, it’s my favorite part.” The warden patted the wall. “Solid concrete. A lot less forgiving than brick. The guards call it the Wolves' Den. It’s our maximum security cell block.” He gestured to one of the corridors. “This way, agents.”

The gate separating the common area from the corridor opened with a wave and Foster led them to the room at the end of it. The inmates in the cells of either side of them looked up with interest, some even standing up to come up to the bars. Some were unfamiliar to Reid, others he recognized immediately.

Cell A102: Albert Jeffery Mays, sexual sadist.

Cell A103: Joseph Wade Corley, spree killer.

Cell A106: Ronald James Fulcher, bomber.

Cell A104 was empty. The inmate in cell A101, a greying man in his fifties, was unknown to Reid and the inmate in A105 hadn’t bothered to get out of his cot.

The warden waved to open the gate that lead to the interview room.

“Well, this is it,” he told them. “Officer Summers will be in to bring Wilkins to you.” Foster pointed to the camera in the corner of the room. “Just wave when you’re done here and someone will let you out.”

Rossi shook Foster’s hand again.

“Thank you, warden.”

Foster nodded.

“Good luck,” he said in closing, then turned and left the way they had come.

Reid and Rossi took their seats beside each other on one side of the table.

“Nervous?” Rossi asked when he noticed the way his young colleague was fiddling with his hands in his lap.

Reid shifted in his seat, embarrassed. He thought he had been doing a decent job of hiding his anxiety. Apparently he was wrong.

“A little,” he admitted.

Rossi clasped a hand to his shoulder in a gesture that never failed to bring comfort and confidence to whoever received it.

“There’s nothing wrong with being nervous, kid,” he told him. “You’ll do great, I know that.”

Reid smiled slightly.

“Thanks,” he said, then added in a forcibly light tone. “I don’t know why I’m so nervous.”

Rossi scoffed.

“Look what you’re about to do.”

Reid shrugged. Rossi could always see through his attempts to mask his emotions, anyone on the team could. That was the downside to working with profilers.

“Don’t worry, _Cucciolo_ ,” Rossi continued. “If Wilkins wants to get to you, he’s gonna have to go through me.”

Reid smiled to himself. He was touched at the display of Rossi’s protective streak, even if it wasn’t really warranted. Wilkins would have a hard time getting to him while cuffed to a table.

A loud buzzing drew their attention to the gate into the common area, and the agents watched as a solidly built guard, Officer Summers, entered and went to a cell, which opened with a wave to the camera. Summers retrieved the cell’s occupant, the inmate that hadn’t bothered to leave his cot, and brought him into the interview room, depositing him in the chair across from them and securing his cuffed hands to the table.

Wordlessly, the guard left, but Reid and Rossi weren’t focused on him. All of their attention was focused on the man before them.

“Agent Rossi, I remember you,” Wilkins said, a self-important smirk on his face. “You got old.”

Rossi cocked an eyebrow at the inmate.

“So did you,” he stated dismissively.

Wilkins scoffed lightly then slid his eyes to Reid, leering as he slowly looked him over.

“Who’s your friend?”

“SSA Dr. Reid,” Rossi told him, purposefully using Reid’s full title.

Wilkins licked his lips.

“I like him.” The inmate ran his eyes over Reid like an unwanted touch, and the young agent suddenly found it very hard not to squirm. “Oh, the things I would do to him.”

Reid shot a quick glance at Rossi, a small part of him hoping the man would come to his aid. He got his wish. If looks could kill, the State of North Carolina could consider Wilkins executed.

“Watch your mouth,” Rossi warned, then opened the file on the table in front of him. “Let’s get this over with.”

As odd as it sounded, hearing Rossi threaten a serial killer for him was strangely comforting. Reid couldn’t help but feel silly for his earlier anxiety. Wilkins couldn’t touch him. Even if he hadn’t been in cuffs, Rossi was there, and he wouldn’t let anything happen to him. This was just another interview. He was perfectly safe.

Finally letting himself relax, Reid took his hands out of his lap to open his own file.

He had just barely brushed it with his fingers when Wilkins’ hand, which should have been shackled under the table, shot out and grabbed his wrist in an iron grip.

•••

The FBI agents weren’t what he was expecting. When Summers thought of the FBI, he thought of physically imposing, authoritative men in dark suits, not a casually dressed old man and a skinny kid in a cardigan.

But maybe that could work to his advantage. A couple of pencil-pushers wouldn’t last five minutes against five of A-Block’s worst. They hadn’t even noticed the key he had left in Wilkins’ cuffs.

His plan was in motion, but there was one more thing he needed to do for it to work.

“Hey, Summers,” Frederiks greeted him from the switchboard when he entered the control room and covertly locked the door behind him. “What are you doing here, man?”

Frederiks never saw the taser coming.


	3. Damnation

“Rossi!”

The single shout of his name had the older agent out of his chair faster than he had ever moved.

“Guard!” he shouted down the corridor as he ran around to Reid’s side of the table and grabbed at Wilkins fingers, trying with all his might to pry them open.

“Let him go!” Rossi barked, but the killer just smirked at him.

He felt the fingers tighten on Reid’s wrist and heard his young colleague hiss in pain.

“Let him go!” Rossi repeated, but Wilkins held on, obviously enjoying his panic and Reid’s fear.

Reid’s fear.

Reid.

Wilkins was free. Rossi didn’t know how, but the fact was that he was unrestrained and he could get to Reid.

He had already shown an interest in him. The desire was there. He wanted to hurt him. He wanted to...

Oh god.

Rossi couldn’t let that happen.

He wouldn’t let that happen.

He had to protect Reid.

He had to get him away from Wilkins.

It was that instinct that made him pick up the pen that was sitting on top of Reid’s file and stab the point into the killer’s arm.

Wilkins’ hand sprang open with a shout of surprise and pain, and Rossi wasted no time in pulling Reid out of his chair and pushing him behind him.

He got Reid away from Wilkins, now he had to get him out of this room.

He had called for the guards, but none had come. Rossi could only hope that they were on their way.

The killer grasped the pen stuck into his arm and wrenched it out with a grunt. He stood up from behind the table, flexing his now impaired left hand and stalking toward them like a predator closing in on its prey.

Rossi matched his pace, sidestepping around the table toward the gate, making sure to keep himself between Reid and Wilkins.

“I wasn’t in much of an interviewing mood today,” the killer said conversationally, then focused on Reid with a hungry look. “You know what I am in the mood for?”

Rossi felt Reid grab at the fabric of his jacket like a frightened child, and suddenly all the panic and worry he had been feeling was replaced with anger and a fierce protectiveness.

This man would not get to his kid.

Not if Rossi had anything to say about it.

“You’re not gonna lay a hand on him,” the older agent declared unwaveringly.

Wilkins scoffed.

“I already have, and what’s to stop me from doing it again?”

Rossi ignored him, placing a hand over Reid’s, still clutched in his jacket.

“Spencer, when I say ‘go,’ you go to that gate and you don’t stop until you’re through it, you understand me?”

There was a brief pause, during which Rossi assumed Reid must have nodded.

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

Rossi gave Reid’s hand a squeeze and said a quick prayer in his head.

“Go.”

Rossi shoved Reid in the direction of the gate at the same moment that Wilkins lunged for him. The killer reached out a hand to make a grab for his intended prey but staggered back as the older agent’s fist collided with his nose. Rossi quickly closed the distance between them and landed another hit, this time to Wilkins’ jaw, and watched as he crumpled bonelessly to the floor.

Reid was waving frantically at the camera when Rossi joined him at the gate.

“Rossi, nothing’s happening,” the young agent said, looking at his older colleague fearfully.

“Someone will come,” Rossi told him, though he was having trouble believing it himself.

Anyone watching the cameras would have witnessed the struggle, and how long ago had he called for help?

Reid seemed to have come to the same conclusion.

“Then why hasn’t anyone?”

Rossi wasn’t sure if he had an optimistic answer to that.

“We’re gonna be fine, kid,” was what he said instead.

As if on queue, a loud buzzing echoed through the concrete walls. Rossi sent Reid a relieved smile.

“See, _Cucciolo_? What’d I...”

He trailed off when the gate stayed closed, but one of the cell doors in the corridor slid open. Then another. And another. The inmates crept out of their cells and up to the gate, regarding the trapped federal agents with cruel amusement. Mays was twirling a shiv in his hand.

The sound that should have been their salvation had just become their damnation.

It was clear then that no one was coming to help them. They were on their own. Two unarmed agents against six psychopaths.

Reid’s hand blindly reached out for Rossi as they both stepped back from the gate, and the older agent put a hand on his arm.

“What do we do?” Reid asked, as if Rossi somehow had an answer for him.

He didn’t have a clue how he was going to protect Reid from this, but he would be damned if he wasn’t about to try.

Rossi took out his cellphone, saying a silent prayer of thanks that the prison had service.

“Call for backup,” he said.

Rossi hit the name at the top of his speed dial list and put the phone to his ear. It picked up on the third ring.

“Hotchner.”

“Aaron.” This was it. He would tell Hotch what had happened, Hotch would bring the team, and they would be safe. Reid would be safe. “We need–“

“Rossi!”

The older agent had become distracted when the inmates were let out of their cells, and he hadn’t thought to restrain Wilkins.

And now the killer had Reid in a chokehold with Mays’ shiv to his throat.

He should have known by then that optimism was the worst kind of killer, because the gate that had acted as a barrier between them and the inmates was sliding open.

“Don’t!” was the first word out of Rossi’s mouth, even though logically he knew that Wilkins wouldn’t kill Reid.

That wasn’t how he did things. It would have been too quick. And corpses didn’t do anything for him.

“Hang up the phone, Agent Rossi,” Wilkins ordered calmly as the inmates entered the interview room and spread out around them like an audience.

Rossi hesitated and the killer pressed the shiv harder into Reid’s neck so that a bead of blood appeared beneath the point.

“Hang it up and set it on the table,” he reiterated.

For the briefest of moments, a tiny part of Rossi’s brain that he would never let see the light of day urged him not to. After all, a slit throat was a lot quicker and less torturous than beating and rape.

Rossi shoved that thought down with a surge of shame. That wasn’t an option. The team was coming and until then, he would do everything in his power to prevent Reid from having to endure that torture. Rossi pressed the ‘end call’ button and set his phone down on the table, then raised his hands in a placating gesture.

“Let him go,” he said as calmly as he could manage while Reid watched him with terrified eyes. “If you want to hurt someone, hurt me.”

“No!” Reid protested, voice wavering ever so slightly.

“I’m the one who arrested you,” Rossi continued as if Reid hadn’t spoken. “I’m the one who stopped you killing.”

Wilkins chuckled as if Rossi’s words were amusing to him.

“I don’t want you,” he said, “but— what did you call him? Spencer?— Well...” Wilkins leaned in to Reid and ran his tongue up the side of his face. The young agent recoiled in disgust and Rossi fought not to shudder. “He’s perfect.”

The inmates laughed at the defeat that must have shown on the older agent’s face.

Now they were well and truly fucked.

•••

Summers hadn’t meant to kill Frederiks. He couldn’t help it if he was mesmerized by the way the other man had convulsed when he was hit with the taser. It was just so... interesting. Fascinating. No one could blame him for accidentally holding the taser on him for too long.

He envied the man now though. Or he envied his job. To sit in this room and see everything that happened in this hellhole was one thing, but to be able to control it? That was exhilarating. It was almost like a video game.

The past five minutes were the most fun that Summers had ever had in his life. To hold the FBI agents’ lives in his hands, to control their fates, to watch the fear in their eyes was a thrill like no other. And it wasn’t a video game, it was real life. He was like a god.

The old man was more of a fighter than Summers had expected. The way he had protected the kid was almost parental. That would make things more interesting.

His only regret was how out in the open all of this was. Sure, that was his original intent, but that also meant that there was no way he wouldn’t go down for it. It was a shame, he would have very much liked to do this again.

But for now, all he had to do was sit back and watch the show.


	4. The Iniquity of the Father

On any other day, David Rossi wouldn’t have allowed himself to be handcuffed to a chair with the very cuffs that Wilkins had been in just a few moments ago. At least not without a fight. But in that situation, the threat of the shiv at Reid’s throat was all the incentive he needed to cooperate.

Corley and the gray-haired inmate had cinched the cuffs tight enough to bruise, a move that Rossi doubted was unintentional. He may not have caught either of them himself, but he was a federal agent. He would make a good surrogate for whoever had.

That may have also been the reason why Fulcher and Mays had been so rough when Wilkins handed Reid over to them, despite the young man’s general lack of an imposing nature.

Wilkins set the shiv on the table beside Rossi’s phone, lit up with several missed calls from each of his teammates, and returned to his younger captive. The killer reached for his patterned purple tie and Reid held back a whimper as he started to remove it.

“What the hell are you doing?” Rossi jerked angrily at his cuffs. “Get your fucking hands off him!”

“Oh, calm down, agent,” Wilkins said without turning around. He went around behind Reid and bound his hands behind his back with the tie. “We’ll get there, just not yet.”

Wilkins went to the center of the room and leaned back against the table to survey his captives with satisfaction. He let out a contented sigh.

“I’ve missed this,” he said, smiling at each of them. “It may not be the same, but if I’m being honest, it’s better.”

Rossi rolled his eyes.

“Oh yeah, and why’s that?”

Wilkins smiled cruelly.

“I’m glad you asked, Dave. Can I call you Dave?”

“Fuck you,” was Rossi’s answer.

“I’m gonna call you Dave,” the killer continued, undeterred. “I got a feeling from you two. I watched the way you protected Spencer, the way you were willing to put his life above yours. So I did some profiling of my own—“ he smiled, obviously proud of himself— “and I have to congratulate you, Dave. It looks like you got yourself a kid. Though I have to say I’m hesitant to give you the Father of the Year Award. I mean, you brought your boy to me.”

Rossi felt guilt burning in his chest. Wilkins was right. He had practically handed Reid to him on a silver platter. He knew what the killer would want to do to him, but still he brought him along. How could he have been so stupid?

“I’m glad you did though,” Wilkins was still speaking, “because in doing so, you gave me the best possible way to make you suffer. Are you a religious man, Dave?”

Rossi furrowed his brow, wondering where this was going.

“Yes,” he answered truthfully enough.

“So you’re familiar with Exodus 20:5. ‘I, the Lord your God, am a jealous God, visiting the iniquity of the fathers on the children unto the third and the fourth generations.’” Wilkins stood up from the table and sauntered over to Reid. “I guess that makes me God.”

With that, the killer spun and swung his fist into Reid’s cheekbone. The young agent’s head snapped to the side as he let out a sound of pain that tore at Rossi’s heart.

Wilkins didn’t wait before he threw the next punch, this time to Reid’s nose. Blood immediately began to flow down over his lips, mingling with the blood slowly dripping from the cut on his cheekbone.

“Stop it!” Rossi shouted, pulling against his cuffs hard enough to bruise.

Corley and the grey-haired inmate grabbed him by the shoulders and shoved him back against the chair.

“Calm down!” the grey haired inmate snapped. “Or I can promise you, you’ll regret it!”

Rossi ignored him and, throwing caution to the wind, gathered up as much saliva as he could and spit it into his face. The inmate jumped back in disgust.

“You cocky son of a bitch!”

The inmate struck him hard in the jaw, and Rossi tasted blood from where he must have bitten through his tongue.

“Stop!” Reid cried, pulling uselessly against Fulcher and Mays.

“Settle, Rawlings,” Wilkins said as the grey-haired inmate, apparently named Rawlings, cocked back his fist for another blow. “We still want him to be able to see. You’ll get your turn with him once I’m finished with this one.”

Rawlings grumbled but lowered his fist and stepped back, and Wilkins wasted no time in throwing a third punch to Reid’s temple. The young agent rocked back from the force of the blow then sagged limply in the grip of the inmates holding him.

“Reid?” Rossi called as his colleague’s head lolled forward to hang down on his chest. The older agent felt his chest constrict in fear when he didn’t answer. “Spencer?”

Wilkins grabbed a fistful of Reid’s hair and pulled his head up so that Rossi could see his slack, bloodied face.

“Well, look at that,” the killer said. “Three hits and he’s down for the count. I’ve gotta be honest with you, Dave, I thought he’d last longer.”

Rossi tensed when Wilkins put his hand on Reid’s cheek in a perversion of a tender gesture.

“It’s time to wake up, Spencer,” he cooed, tone sickly sweet.

When Reid didn’t stir, Wilkins removed his hand and slapped his cheek hard.

“Wake up,” the killer ordered, all trace of taunting sweetness gone.

Reid finally scrunched up his face as if the lights were too bright and groaned softly.

“Ah, there he is,” Wilkins whispered mockingly. “You can’t go passing out on us now, we haven’t even gotten to the best part.”

Rossi watched Reid’s pained features for any signs of awareness.

“Spencer?”

Reid opened his eyes to slits and lifted his unfocused gaze to the older agent.

“Rossi?”

“Yeah, I’m here, kiddo.”

“Aw,” Wilkins taunted, “that’s sweet. Not that you can do him any good from over there.”

“Fuck off,” Rossi spat.

Wilkins chuckled and let go of Reid’s hair, letting the young agent’s head fall back to his chest.

“He’s much less of a fighter than I thought he’d be.” He turned to Fulcher and Mays. “Untie him and let him down.”

The inmates did as they were told and let Reid slump unceremoniously to the floor, the young man just barely catching himself with his newly-freed hands.

For one terrifying moment, Rossi thought that Wilkins had decided to finish the beating early and move onto the rape. He was almost relieved when the killer instead drove his foot into Reid’s stomach.

Reid’s whole body jerked, gasping as the breath was knocked harshly from his lungs. He got no reprieve before the next kick landed, or the next. The inmates cheered Wilkins on with every one. On the fourth, Reid let out a breathless scream and curled around his midsection.

Rossi jerked against the cuffs again and felt blood well up sluggishly from his wrists

“Leave him alone!” he shouted as Reid laid on the floor, cradling his injured ribs.

“Leave him alone?” Wilkins feigned hurt and crouched at Reid’s head. “How can I leave him alone? We’re having so much–“

The killer cut himself off with a shout of pain when Reid suddenly surged upright and drove his thumb into the spot where Rossi had stabbed him with the pen.

“You little shit!” Wilkins yelled and backhanded Reid across the face. “You know what?” The killer grabbed him when he tried to push himself away and flipped him roughly onto his back. “If you’re gonna try to exploit that, I think it’s only fair that we even the playing field.”

Wilkins pulled Reid’s arm out away from his body and pinned it to the ground with his knee just above the elbow. Reid seemed to realize what was about to happen and tried desperately to pull away, but Wilkins was stronger. He wrapped one hand around the young agent’s thin wrist and wrenched it upward.

A loud pop. A guttural scream. A breathless sob.

Those three sounds followed each other in quick succession, but Rossi didn’t see their source.

He didn’t see Reid’s arm bend in a way it never should. He didn’t see his face contort in agony. He didn’t see the tears of pain squeeze their way out of his eyes.

Because he looked away.

He fucking looked away.

Reid needed him and he looked away.

He had looked at hundreds of gruesome crime scene photos in his career, he had watched snuff films, he had even watched people die in real time.

He had seen a lot worse than a broken arm. But still he looked away.

What was wrong with him?

“Oh don’t look away now, Dave,” Wilkins said, smiling sadistically while Reid shook with pain and sobs at his feet. “We’re just getting started.”


	5. Armchair Profiling

Rossi didn’t look away again. Not when Wilkins kicked until Reid’s ribs must have been several shades of black and blue. Not when a particularly hard kick to the stomach had Reid choking up bile. Not when the killer dragged Reid up off the floor by his hair just to break his nose.

He may not have been able to stop the beating and pull the bleeding, crying kid up into his arms, but at the very least Rossi could grant him some meager comfort in the form of eye contact and whatever meaningless words of reassurance came to his mind in the moment.

Rossi was finding it harder and harder to keep his emotions in check. His eyes were growing more wet with every scream that Reid let out, tears threatening to fall from a horrible mixture of helplessness and pure mental anguish.

But he couldn’t cry. He had to stay strong for Reid’s sake. How could he be a comforting force to the kid if he was a teary-eyed mess?

He just hoped that he would never have to see Reid hurt again, even if the chances of that were extraordinarily slim in their job.

But somehow, watching Reid be beat into the floor while Rossi was helpless to do anything about it wasn’t the worst part of this whole ordeal. The worst part was knowing that at any time, Wilkins could decide that he was satisfied with the beating and move onto the real torture.

Just the thought of it made a cold stone of dread settle in Rossi’s gut. Even if help arrived before Wilkins finished with Reid and killed him, the kid would never be the same. Rossi would never dare to underestimate his strength, but everyone had their limits. Reid had already survived more than his fair share of trauma in his young life; abandonment, bullying, kidnapping, torture, but rape? That could very well be the last straw.

Rossi had to find a way to keep that from happening. It was useless to try to reason with a psychopath like Wilkins, but he would try nonetheless. If that didn’t work, he could stall until help arrived. And if all else failed, he could keep the killer’s attention on himself rather than Reid.

Whatever that entailed.

Wilkins sighed contentedly as he dropped Reid back on the floor and sat back on his haunches.

“That felt good,” he said as Reid held his broken nose, pained tears streaming down the young man’s face. “It’s been a long time since I really let loose like that.” He turned to Rossi. “I have to thank you, Dave, you couldn’t have gotten me a more thoughtful gift.”

Anger burned in Rossi’s chest.

“He has a name, you bastard,” he ground out through gritted teeth.

“Oh, I know,” Wilkins said with an almost wistful smile, “I heard you scream it the last couple of times.”

The killer stood and sauntered slowly toward Rossi.

“Spencer!” he imitated dramatically, causing the other inmates to laugh. “Spencer, I’m right here! Spencer, it’s gonna be okay!”

Wilkins stopped less than a foot in front of Rossi and leaned down to be at eye level, smirking evilly.

“I guess I could always just call him kiddo.”

Rossi surged forward, held back by his cuffs, in a movement that reminded him more of Morgan than himself, but Wilkins was just out of his reach.

The killer straightened with an amused chuckle.

“But I don’t think I will,” he smirked sadistically. “It might make this next part a bit awkward.”

Rossi furrowed his brow, wondering what Wilkins meant by that. Then it hit him.

“No!”

The word was out of his mouth before he could stop it. Any thoughts of trying to reason with Wilkins were scattered as the real emotion of the situation took over.

The killer smiled with cold, cruel eyes.

“As much fun as it was breaking Spencer’s delicate little bones, I’ve been waiting for this all day.”

Wilkins turned and began to walk menacingly slowly toward Reid, smiling with sadistic delight as the young man tried to push himself away with his one good arm.

“Don’t play hard to get now, Spencer,” Wilkins said as grabbed Reid by the ankle and pulled him back.

“Wait!” Rossi found himself yelling, “Wait! You want to make me suffer, right? Do you want me to beg? Fine.” He hated how his voice shook when he spoke. “I’m begging you. Please don’t hurt him anymore.”

Wilkins paused as if considering Rossi’s offer, then let go of Reid and stood to face the older agent expectantly.

“Well, don’t stop now, Dave.”

Rossi dropped his gaze for a moment in shame. He had told himself that he would do whatever it took to keep Reid safe, and if that meant sacrificing his dignity then so be it.

“Please,” he said quietly when he brought his eyes back up to Wilkins. “Please don’t hurt him anymore.”

“That’s right, old man,” Fulcher said as the inmates laughed at Rossi’s humiliation. “Not so tough now, are you?”

Wilkins face showed no sign of his fellow inmates’ amusement.

“I think you can do better than that, Dave,” he said darkly, “we wouldn’t want me to start in on Spencer again, now would we?”

Rossi gritted his teeth but complied.

“Please don’t hurt him,” he begged, throwing some more emotion behind the words.

If it were possible, Wilkins face darkened and he placed his foot lightly on Reid’s broken arm in an unspoken threat.

“I said,” the killer repeated slowly, “you can do better.”

Rossi met Reid’s teary, frightened eyes and felt more moisture pricking at his own.

“Please, don’t.”

Wilkins pushed his foot down slightly and Reid let out a pained whimper that only caused Rossi’s eyes to fill more.

“Like you mean it, Dave,” the killer instructed as if speaking to a child.

“Please, stop,” Rossi pleaded, willing his voice not to crack even as it wavered.

Wilkins pushed down hard enough that Rossi was sure he could have heard his young colleague’s bones shifting.

“Come on! Like you mean it!” Wilkins shouted as Reid let out a broken scream.

“Stop!” Rossi shouted back, but the fight instantly drained out of him.

His voice had cracked.

His voice had cracked and now the tears were spilling out of his eyes and he was forcing down a sob that bubbled up in his throat.

He had told himself that he would stay strong for Reid, but as it turned out, hearing the kid scream that one final time was the thing that finally broke him.

“Please,” he finished weakly.

Wilkins took his foot off of Reid’s arm and leaned close to Rossi to get a better look at his face.

“Aw,” he said with mock sympathy. “Is it all getting to be too much, Dave? Don’t worry, we just have one more thing to do now.”

“No!” Rossi objected desperately, knowing exactly what the killer was referring to and feeling the floor drop out from under him at the thought. “Please, no.”

Wilkins just smiled while Reid heaved a terrified sob below him.

“Now, Dave.” The killer got on his knees and straddled the weakly struggling young man’s thighs. “The begging was fun while it lasted but it can’t go on forever.”

“Rossi!” Reid sobbed as Wilkins moved his hands toward the young man’s belt.

Rossi’s mind was screaming at him to do something, do anything, so he did the only thing he could think of.

“I talked to your father!” he shouted, as he willed himself to remember his original profile from nearly twenty years before.

To Rossi’s crushing relief, Wilkins paused in undoing Reid’s belt to look at the older agent.

“You didn’t talk to my father,” he said cynically but the profiler in Rossi could see the glint of doubt in his eyes.

“I did,” Rossi insisted, hoping beyond hope that Wilkins wouldn’t call his bluff or simply ignore him. “I talked to him during the investigation. He was part of the reason I caught you.”

Wilkins smiled but there was no mirth in his face, not even the sadistic kind that Rossi and Reid had become so familiar with.

“Well, Dave, what did you think of the old bastard?”

“I could see what he’d done to you.”

The smile melted off of Wilkins’ face like candle wax and Rossi knew he was on the right track.

“And what did he do to me?” the killer prompted.

“He beat you,” Rossi told him, “and he molested you.”

The cold smile returned, but it was obvious that Rossi had touched a raw nerve. Wilkins scoffed.

“Well, who didn’t get smacked around by their parents every once in a while?” the killer said with forced lightheartedness.

“Your brother didn’t.”

Rossi watched as Wilkins’ aloof facade faltered for just a moment but quickly came back up.

“So what?”

“So you hated him for it,” Rossi pressed on. “But you couldn’t punish him, because he was killed by a drunk driver before you could get to him. So you found men who reminded you of him, and you beat them and you raped them. Just like your father did to you.”

Wilkins finally got off of Reid and stood to fully face Rossi, barely controlled anger written in every line of his body.

“You don’t know me,” he seethed.

Rossi forced out a laugh that he hoped sounded scornful.

“I do know you, Daniel.” He spat Wilkins’ first name like a curse. “And do you know what else I know? You’re just like your father.”

It had the desired effect.

“Shut up!” the killer yelled, advancing quickly on the older agent with a violent rage flashing in his eyes.

Rossi was expecting a punch. A black eye, maybe a broken nose. He wasn’t expecting the shiv.


	6. Hopelessness

It had been going so well.

It had been going perfectly.

The kid had been beaten to a bloody pulp.

The old man had lost his attitude of cocky bravado.

Every time one of them had called out for the other or cried out at the other’s pain, Summers had been on pins and needles.

He had thought that watching their fear as he let the inmates out of their cells was good. And it was. Seeing the exact moment that their hope slipped away was like a drug. An addictive one.

But it didn’t compare to their fear once the inmates had them.

The kid was one thing. His screams were just beautiful. Perfect bursts of sound that told of his sweet agony.

And the whimpers. They were titillating. They were orgasmic.

If only the camera could have picked up the sounds of his bones breaking. That would have just been the icing on the cake.

The kid was one thing, but the old man was another thing entirely. He was bold, blustering. He wasn’t afraid to mouth off to the inmates. He sucker punched Wilkins. He spit at Rawlings. Where the kid was fearfully timid, he was fearlessly protective.

All of that only made his breaking all the more satisfying. To watch such a forceful and undaunted personality be beaten down to the point of begging and crying was a privilege. One that Summers was grateful to have been allowed.

Wilkins had broken both of them. The kid’s body and the old man’s spirit.

Or at least Summers thought he had. But then the old man had gotten a random flash of his old defiant demeanor and ruined everything.

Summers had found that he enjoyed seeing them suffer, but how could Wilkins keep up the show if the old man was bleeding out from a stab wound to the chest?

It was a waste of potential. Today was the only time that Summers would ever be able to do something like this. It should have been perfect, and they ruined it!

He should have been in control. He was a god! He was supposed to control whether they lived or died.

He still could. The control room had a gun locker for riots. There were countless rounds between all of the weapons, but all he needed was seven.

Summers opened the locker and looked over the array of firearms. Pistols, rifles, shotguns. Any one of them could get the job done in an instant.

His eyes landed on a Glock 17. It was small but powerful, and could hold plenty of rounds. He had just picked up the gun when a thought occurred to him.

Maybe all he needed was six. The old man was dead anyway. Maybe Summers would let him have the privilege of watching the kid get a bullet to the brain as he bled to death. That was what he deserved after ruining his plans.

Summers unlocked the door and stuck the gun in his waistband as he stepped outside of the control room, but stopped at the sight that greeted him.

A tall, dark-haired man was coming down the corridor, face set in an angry scowl. Flanking him were a bald, black man and two women, one blonde and one brunette. ‘FBI’ was emblazoned in white letters on their bulletproof vests and a SWAT team was covering their rear. All of them were pointing their guns at him.

“Officer Robert Summers!” the dark-haired agent yelled. “FBI! Show me your hands!”

No! That wasn’t supposed to happen! He wasn’t finished yet! First the old man got himself stabbed and ruined his plans, and then these damned agents wanted to stop him from making him pay!

That was the last straw. He may not have been able to carry out his original plan, but he wouldn’t let them arrest him. That was the one thing that they wouldn’t ruin for him.

And he may as well take out a few of them in the process. Summers pulled the gun from his waistband and raised it toward the agents.

Pain exploded down his arm as a bullet thudded into his shoulder and the gun fell from his hand. The dark-haired agent lowered his gun and the black man and the blonde came forward to cuff him.

His shoulder screamed as the black man roughly wrenched his arms behind his back.

“Watch it!” he shouted in indignation.

“Shut up!” the black man ordered angrily, cinching the cuffs tight as the blonde held her gun on Summers.

The brunette entered the control room and pressed her hand to her mouth when she caught sight of the security monitors.

“Oh god,” she said, abject horror coloring her voice. “Guys, we need to get in there now.”

•••

He had been stabbed.

Had he been stabbed?

The evidence was right there in front of him, literally protruding from the left side of his chest, and yet Rossi still had a hard time believing it.

He didn’t feel anything.

Stabbing hurt, at least it was supposed to hurt. Rossi wouldn’t really know though, he had never been stabbed before.

He had been shot a handful of times, a hazard of his job, but never stabbed.

Getting shot hurt. It hurt like a bitch. So shouldn’t stabbing hurt too?

Maybe he was in shock.

He wasn’t expecting to get stabbed.

Maybe once the initial surprise wore off then–

Oh.

Fuck.

He felt it.

It hurt.

It hurt like all hell.

Rossi gritted his teeth and screwed his eyes shut as the pain spread out from his chest in waves. It was like his nerves had gone from zero to a hundred in a fraction of a second.

Should it really have hurt that much?

The shiv wasn’t that big.

What if it had hit something important?

What if it hit his lung or a major blood vessel?

Was he about to suffocate or bleed to death right here in this room?

“Rossi!”

Reid’s terrified shout pulled him from his spiraling thoughts, and suddenly the stabbing was the last thing on his mind.

Reid still needed him, and Rossi couldn’t help him if he was panicking. He had to pull it together.

Before things had gone south, Rossi’s plan was to protect Reid, no matter what happened to him in the process.

That plan had not changed.

Forcing down the panic that had been steadily rising in his gut, Rossi took stock of himself.

There were two major threats to his survival. Breathing and bleeding.

He could breathe just fine, if not painfully. That was a good sign. That meant that his lungs were probably still intact. That eliminated one threat.

He didn’t feel weak or lightheaded, so he probably wasn’t losing a lot of blood fast. That eliminated the other.

He was fine. The wound was just superficial.

He was fine.

“I’m fine, Spencer,” Rossi said between panting breaths, just then remembering that Reid had called out for him. “I’m fine.”

“Oh, you’re fine?” Wilkins finally spoke from where he was half-crouched in from of Rossi, still poised in the position he had used to stab him. “That’s good, I wouldn’t want you passing out just yet.”

Rossi glanced at Reid, who was watching him from the floor with big, terrified eyes. It was only a matter of time before Wilkins returned his attention to his intended prey.

“Don’t you touch him,” the older agent ground out, forcing his voice to be steady.

Wilkins laughed, but there was no mirth in it. His eyes were dark pools of pure sadism.

“I’m going to do a lot more than touch him, Dave,” he said, leaning even closer into Rossi with a dead-eyed smile on his face. “I really wish you hadn’t mentioned my old man. I was already going to do unspeakable things to your boy, but now...” The killer trailed off as he looked over his shoulder at Reid. “Now I wonder what I can do to him that will break your fragile little psyche.”

Wilkins ghosted his finger down the grip of the shiv, then harshly yanked it out, eliciting a surprised groan from Rossi.

“I have this.” He held up the bloody shiv as if inspecting it. “I think I should see how many new holes I can open up with it. I mean, he already has one low one and one high one for me to fill, but you know what they say. Variety is the spice of life.”

Rossi swallowed hard when bile rose in his throat at the killer’s words. Normal rape was one thing but that...

If Wilkins really wanted to break his psyche, he had certainly chosen the right way to do it.

“Oh, does that turn your stomach, Dave?” the killer said with mock concern. “Just watch where you hurl. I can’t imagine that vomit in a stab wound is a good thing.”

Wilkins straightened and moved back to Reid. The young man again tried to push himself away but the killer pulled him back.

“No more of that,” Wilkins practically purred as he pushed Reid flat on his back and straddled him. “It’s time for you and me to have some fun.”

“Rossi!” Reid called out in utter terror.

The older agent felt tears of sheer helplessness fill his eyes at his young colleague’s pleading voice. Reid was about to be mutilated and violated in the worst possible way and Rossi could only watch.

“It’s okay, Spencer,” he said, even though it wasn’t okay. It was so far from okay, but what else could he say? “It’s okay, I’m right here. Just look at me, _Cucciolo_.”

Rossi cursed himself as the nickname that he had been avoiding lest Wilkins use it against him slipped out unbidden.

“Oh, you have a pet name for him, Dave?” the killer taunted. “I might just have to use that one myself.”

Wilkins raised the shiv above his head in preparation to bring it down somewhere into Reid’s abdomen, and three things happened at once.

Reid’s body tensed as he let out a sob.

Rossi screamed his protest.

A gunshot rang out from outside the room and Wilkins went rigid, then slumped to the side off of Reid.

SWAT officers in full tactical gear flooded the room, ordering the remaining inmates to their knees and cuffing them. Hotch entered then, followed closely by the rest of the team and Rossi sagged against his chair in relief.

The team was there. It was finally over.

Rossi hurried to Reid as soon as his hands were free, Hotch and Prentiss trailing at his heels like the concerned friends that they were. Morgan and JJ made room for the older agent to drop to his knees at his injured colleague’s head.

Rossi gently brushed some stray hair off of Reid’s forehead then cupped his face with his hand.

“It’s okay, _Cucciolo_ ,” he said. More tears spilled out of Reid’s eyes and Rossi swiped at them with his thumb as his other hand came to rest in the young agent’s hair. “It’s over now.”

It was over.

They were safe.

Reid was safe.


	7. Finally Over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s just now occurring to me that I’ll be posting the last chapter on Christmas. Do you guys think I should change it up and post it earlier or later?

The sun was still up and shining when the paramedics wheeled Reid out of the prison’s entrance on a gurney. The young agent was surprised when he had to squint against the bright sunlight directly overhead, even though he wasn’t exactly sure why he had expected it to be dark.

“Rossi,” Reid broke the silence that had settled over them, turning to his older colleague who was walking beside the gurney, one hand pressing a pad of gauze into his chest wound and the other holding the young agent’s good hand in a protectively tight grip.

Rossi turned to Reid, the sunlight glinting dully off the thin sheen of sweat that had formed on his pale forehead.

“What is it, kiddo?”

“Do you know what time it is?”

Rossi glanced at his watch, which was sitting just above the line of deep bruising and not-yet-dried blood coloring his wrist.

“It’s about one o’clock,” he reported. “Why?”

The young agent turned his head to the side to avoid the sunlight.

“I thought it was later.”

It had seemed like hours that they had been trapped in the prison. It didn’t even feel like the same day that Reid had met Rossi in the parking garage at Quantico and gratefully excepted the expensive coffee that the older agent had offered him. Though in Reid’s experience, torture tended to do that to a person’s perception of time.

Rossi seemed to share his sentiment, because his eyes briefly took on a haunted look and his grip on Reid’s hand tightened slightly.

“Yeah, me too.”

Reid returned the pressure in a sympathetic gesture but felt the smallest of tremors run through the hand holding his.

“You’re hands are shaking,” he said with concern, “are you okay?”

Rossi brushed off Reid’s unease.

“Yeah, I’m alright, it’s just the adrenaline wearing off.” He smiled reassuringly. “Don’t worry about me, _Cucciolo_.”

“I can’t help it.”

Rossi smiled again, fondly.

“I know the feeling. Oh, and by the way, you were right.”

Reid furrowed his brow.

“How so?”

“A disgruntled guard locked himself in the control room,” Rossi told him. “That’s how the prisoners got out.” He sighed. “It’s times like this I wish you could get things wrong every once in a while.”

Reid looked down at his lap.

“Me too.”

Rossi looked away from the young agent, gaze growing distant.

“Listen, Spencer,” he said, “I need to say something to you.”

Reid looked back up.

“What is it?”

Rossi took a deep breath and Reid could have sworn that he saw some moisture in the older agent’s eyes.

“I asked you on this interview,” Rossi finally said, tone steeped in guilt. “I knew what Wilkins would want to do to you, but...” He trailed off, voice wavering just slightly. “God, kid, I’m so sorry.”

Reid frowned.

“You didn’t know what would happen.”

Rossi shook his head.

“But I made you a promise that I would protect you from him, and if the team hadn’t come in time–“

“But they did,” Reid cut him off, “and even if they hadn’t, I still wouldn’t blame you. It’s not your fault, so stop blaming yourself.”

Rossi seemed to consider his words, then finally nodded.

“Okay.” He brought Reid’s hand up and pressed it to his lips. “Thank you, _Cucciolo_.”

They fell silent again as they continued on their way, and Hotch joined them when they reached the ambulance.

“I just wanted to let you both know,” he said, “that Warden Foster told me to give the both of you his sincerest apologies for what happened today.”

Rossi scoffed.

“Tell him to update his security system.”

“And give better psych evals to his guards,” Reid added.

Hotch gave a tight-lipped smile as he put his hand on the young agent’s shoulder.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

“I’m fine,” the young agent answered immediately. It wasn’t technically a lie. Reid didn’t exactly feel like he could run a marathon, but he wasn’t actively dying either.

Hotch raised his eyebrows incredulously.

“Really?”

Reid shrugged, but even that made his ribs ache.

“Yes,” he insisted anyway.

Hotch looked at Rossi as if the older agent could somehow make Reid give an honest answer. Rossi just shrugged, wincing slightly when the movement pulled at his chest wound.

“He’s already on his way to the hospital.”

Hotch shook his head resignedly.

“You’re right.” He looked Rossi over. “What about you?”

“I’m on my feet, aren’t I?”

Hotch sighed in exasperation.

“Against my better judgment.”

Rossi put on his most convincing smile.

“I’ll be fine, Aaron.”

Hotch rubbed the bridge of his nose as if to relieve a headache.

“Fine, just take it easy and listen to the medics.”

Rossi raised his eyebrows in mock offense.

“Aaron, I’m shocked that you have such a low opinion of me.”

Reid smiled as Hotch rolled his eyes.

“I deserve a raise for dealing with you two.” The Unit Chief turned to the paramedics. “Which hospital are you going to?”

“UNC Raleigh,” one of the paramedics, a woman in her forties who had introduced herself as Donna, told him.

“Thank you.” Hotch indicated their teammates. “We’ll meet you there.”

Rossi nodded.

“Okay.”

Hotch squeezed Reid’s shoulder then laid a hand on Rossi’s before he walked off to join the rest of the team.

Donna and her partner began to load Reid’s gurney into the ambulance and Rossi reluctantly relinquished the young agent’s hand when the other paramedic, a man in his late twenties named Jake, offered Rossi a hand up into the vehicle. The older agent took it and Reid watched as he stepped up, but immediately curled into his injured side with a sharp grunt.

“Rossi?” Reid asked, concern lacing his tone. He tried to sit up straighter despite the pain that flared in his ribs, but Donna placed a hand on his shoulder to keep him down.

Rossi quickly schooled his features into a neutral expression and flashed Reid a reassuring smile.

“I’m okay.”

Reid wasn’t convinced, and apparently neither was Jake.

“Are you sure?” the paramedic questioned.

Rossi dismissed the question with a small wave.

“Yeah, I’m just a little sore, I guess.”

“Are you sure that’s all it is?” Jake pressed. “We can get another bus here if you need–“

“I’m not leaving the kid,” Rossi cut the paramedic off testily. His tone left no room for argument.

Jake scoffed irritably.

“Alright, fine.” He stepped down out of the ambulance and began to shut the doors. “We should get going.”

Rossi gave Reid’s shoulder a squeeze as he sat down on the bench seat. The young agent looked at him seriously.

“You told Hotch you would listen to the paramedics,” he reminded him.

Rossi shrugged with his good side.

“Sorry, kid, you’re not gonna get rid of me that easily.”

Reid rolled his eyes.

“Don’t I know it.”

The young agent held back a laugh as Rossi scoffed.

“Oh, so you think you’re funny now?”

Reid finally let out his laughter but regretted it instantly. It was like a thousand tiny knives were being stabbed into his chest and abdomen all at once. The young agent brought his knees halfway up and wrapped his good arm around his stomach.

He distantly heard Rossi calling his name and felt fingers card through his hair in a comforting gesture as Donna helped him straighten his body back out.

“Careful,” Rossi was saying, “just take it easy, _Cucciolo_.”

The pain finally lessened to a dull roar and Reid opened his tightly shut eyes.

“That wasn’t a good idea,” he gritted out.

Rossi scoffed again.

“No kidding.”

“Agent Reid,” Donna drew the young agent’s attention, “if you want, I can give you something for the pain.”

Reid quickly shook his head.

“No, thanks.”

Donna furrowed her brow.

“Are you sure? You look like you’re in–“

“He doesn’t take narcotics,” Rossi cut in harshly.

Donna fixed the older agent with a glare that could rival Hotch’s.

“Then I can give him something non-narcotic,” she told him sternly, “but I’d rather not let your partner be in pain and I don’t think you would either.”

To Reid’s surprise, Rossi actually dropped his gaze humbly then looked to him.

“It’s up to you, kiddo,” the older agent said.

Reid wanted to refuse the drugs. Even if they were non-narcotic, they could still dampen his senses, and a loss of control was the last thing he wanted after his latest ordeal. But the pain was intense, and he wouldn’t mind something to dull it.

“Okay,” he finally decided, albeit reluctantly.

Rossi gripped Reid’s shoulder in silent reassurance as Donna inserted the needle into his arm.

“Just give that a few minutes to work,” the paramedic said when she had injected the medication and removed the needle.

She knocked on the window that led to the cab and Reid felt Jake start the ambulance up. He watched the wrought iron gates of the prison recede into the distance through the back windows as they drove away.

Reid felt the meds start to kick in and closed his eyes as the adrenaline crash from the day’s events finally hit him, letting the movement of the ambulance and the feeling of Rossi’s hand gently rubbing his shoulder lull him into an exhausted sleep.

•••

Bright lights glared through Reid’s eyelids when he became aware again. The light was so bright that for a moment, he wondered if he was outside again. But that didn’t make sense, because he had fallen asleep in an ambulance bound for a hospital.

Reid peeled his eyes open and squinted at the impossibly bright fluorescent lights that passed by overhead as he was wheeled down a hallway on his gurney.

“Hey, look who’s– look who’s finally awake.”

Reid looked to the side to find Rossi, somehow infinitely paler than he had been just a little while earlier. A few stray hairs were stuck to the older agent’s forehead with sweat.

“How long was I asleep?” Reid asked groggily.

“Just a–“ Rossi stopped to take a quick breath in as if he was having trouble taking in a full one, “about fifteen minutes. How’d you—“ another breath— “how’d you sleep?”

“Fine,” Reid said, becoming more awake as concern washed over him. “Are you having trouble breathing?”

Rossi shook his head in dismissal and it was then that Reid realized he was holding onto the bar on the side of the gurney. Not just holding it, white-knuckling it.

“I’m okay,” Rossi got out in one breath. “I’m just a little– little short of breath.”

Reid opened his mouth to respond that Rossi was most decidedly not okay, but was immediately swarmed by nurses when his gurney came to a stop in a triage room. He didn’t have to though, because one of the nurses approached the older agent.

“Agent, we should get you checked out now.”

Rossi shook his head slowly, as if just the small movement was nauseatingly dizzying.

“No, I don’t– don’t want to– to leave him,” he forced out, words beginning to slur.

“Agent, I promise you that your partner is in the best hands,” the nurse told him. “We need to take a look at you.”

Rossi seemed to consider, but finally nodded weakly.

“Okay.”

Reid could see what was about to happen long before any of the nurses did.

“Rossi!” he called, trying futilely to sit up.

No sooner had the older agent released the bar that his knees hit the floor with an audible crash, the rest of his body following seconds later.


	8. The Road to Recovery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas to all of you who celebrate it!

“Rossi!” Reid screamed again in utter horror, struggling against the nurses attempting to keep him lying down. Blinding pain flared in his abused body at every movement, but he didn’t care.

This couldn’t be happening. They had made it out. They were alive. They were supposed to be okay.

Rossi wasn’t supposed to be lying unconscious on the floor of the emergency room, chest visibly struggling to expand while nurses moved around him at what seemed like a snail’s pace.

They were supposed to be okay.

They were supposed to be okay!

“Agent, please lie back. Try to stay calm.” A nurse’s voice broke into the panicked fog that had settled around Reid’s mind. “You’re partner’s being taken care of, but you’re going to hurt yourself.”

“No!” Reid found himself screaming, even as his breath was catching in his throat and his heart was stuttering in his chest. “No!”

How could they expect him to stay calm? How could they expect him to lie back like nothing was wrong? Everything was wrong! This wasn’t supposed to happen!

Fresh tears ran from Reid’s eyes in rivulets, the salt stinging at the cuts on his face as he fought to escape the firm hold of the nurses keeping him on the gurney.

They were supposed to be okay!

“Reid!” A familiar voice spoke from somewhere in front of him. “Reid, it’s Derek. Can you hear me?”

Derek. Morgan was here. Had the rest of the team arrived?

“Kid, can you here me?”

Right. Morgan asked a question, that meant he wanted an answer. Reid nodded.

“Okay. Kid, I need you to take a breath.”

Take a breath? But didn’t Morgan understand that the heavy weight sitting on his chest prevented that? He shook his head.

“You can do it, kid. Can I touch you?”

Touch him? Reid wasn’t sure he wanted to be touched, especially after what he had just gone through. But it was Morgan. Morgan wasn’t going to hurt him. He nodded.

Morgan gently took hold of the wrist of his uninjured arm and pressed Reid’s hand to his own chest.

“Just breathe with me, Pretty Boy. You can do it.”

Morgan’s chest rose with Reid’s hand on top of it, and Reid struggled to copy the motion.

“That’s it, kid. Just keep breathing.”

Reid matched Morgan’s breaths and his vision started to clear, revealing Morgan on one side of his gurney, still holding his hand, and JJ on the other, watching him with a concerned look.

A look past the curtained off area showed Rossi being wheeled away on his own gurney, Hotch and Prentiss walking on either of his sides.

“Rossi,” Reid breathed hoarsely.

Morgan ran his other hand through Reid’s hair.

“The doctors are gonna take care of him, Reid. He’s gonna be fine,” he said. “Everything’s gonna be okay, kid.”

Reid could only hope that he was right.

•••

Hope must have been a powerful thing, because an hour later found Reid sitting at Rossi’s bedside in the wheelchair that Morgan had eagerly volunteered to push.

The older agent was still unconscious, but his color had greatly improved since the last time Reid had seen him. His chest rose and fell with a steady, even rhythm and the heart rate displayed on the EKG was normal and healthy.

The only thing off was the tube that protruded from his side, mostly hidden by the blankets.

Chest tube. Used to drain excess blood and fluids from the chest cavity. Standard treatment for a haemothorax caused by internal bleeding.

Reid didn’t know why he hadn’t caught it before. The pallor, the perspiration, the tremors, the chest pain, the dizziness, the confusion. Rossi had displayed all the symptoms.

He should have been paying more attention. Then maybe he could’ve gotten Rossi the help he needed sooner.

How could he have been so stupid?

•••

_Reid nervously tapped his foot on the floor as he sat in the uncomfortable plastic chair in the waiting room of the hospital. The chairs around him sat cold and empty under the unusually dim fluorescent lights and the corridor in front of him seemed to stretch on indefinitely, its end shrouded in darkness._

_“Agent Reid?”_

_Reid looked at the doctor that had seemingly appeared out of nowhere before him._

_“Yes?”_

_“I have news about Agent Rossi.”_

_Reid sat up straighter, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck stand up in anticipation._

_“Is he okay?”_

_The doctor’s face was emotionless when he spoke._

_“No, agent. He didn’t make it.”_

_It was as if an impossibly heavy weight had been slammed right into the center of Reid’s chest. He stared at the doctor, his mouth agape._

_Rossi couldn’t be dead. He just couldn’t. He was... He was Rossi._

_“W– what?”_

_The doctor’s eyes, devoid of even a hint of sympathy, bored into Reid._

_“Agent Rossi’s stab wound caused severe internal bleeding, which in turn led to a collapsed lung that we were unable to reinflate. He’s dead, agent.”_

_Reid’s world may as well have shattered around him. He buried his face in his hands as the tears came suddenly and forcefully. Broken sobs clawed their way out of his throat hard enough to hurt._

_Rossi was a rock, both physically and emotionally. He protected his teammates like a father protects his children. He fussed over them when they were hurt, he was a shoulder to cry on when they were upset. It was unbelievable to think he could be taken out by something as simple as a malfunctioning lung._

_The doctor’s voice broke into Reid’s broken-hearted thoughts._

_“You can see his body if you want.”_

_Before Reid could process the doctor’s words, he suddenly found himself standing in an empty trauma bay, its plexiglass walls that should have offered a clear view into the emergency room showing nothing but darkness. A sheet was covering a distinctly body-shaped object on a gurney in the center of the room._

_Hesitant steps brought Reid to the side of the gurney. All he had to do was lift the sheet, then he could see for himself, but it was like his hands were frozen at his sides._

_Was it like Schrödinger’s Cat? If he didn’t lift the sheet, did that mean that Rossi was both alive and dead?_

_Reid didn’t have to decide, because the doctor materialized on the other side of the gurney and without preamble, pulled back the sheet._

_A wave of nausea rose in Reid’s stomach and his tears fell anew at the sight before him._

_Rossi’s closed eyes were sunken into his skull and his face was a grotesque shade of grey-white. His partially unbuttoned shirt had been moved aside to reveal the deep, purplish bruising that surrounded the stab wound._

_Reid wasn’t exactly sure how he ended up on the floor. All he knew was that one moment he was standing, and the next his legs were crumpled under him while his entire body shook with sobs._

_He couldn’t move. He couldn’t speak. He could barely think._

_Another one of his father figures was gone. First his dad had left, then Gideon. Now Rossi was..._

_He couldn’t even admit it to himself._

_So wrapped up was he in his own pain and sorrow that Reid barely felt the cold hand settle on the top of his head. Its touch was gentle, slightly stiff fingers running through his hair, massaging his scalp. It was a comforting touch, even if Reid couldn’t decipher its source._

_His grief-induced trance was abruptly broken when the fingers suddenly closed around a lock of his hair and harshly pulled. Reid yelped in pain and surprise, trying to pull away, but the hand held firm. It pulled sharply upwards and he quickly scrambled to his feet to find himself face to face with Rossi’s body._

_Reid watched in utter horror and disgust as the corpses’s eyes slid open with a sick squelching sound, glazed-over eyes piercing, deep and accusing, into his soul._

_“I’m dead because of you.” Rossi’s voice was like gravel over rocks. A death rattle formed into words. “If you hadn’t been such a whimpering little bitch, I’d still be alive.”_

_Reid couldn’t answer, his mouth gaping open like a fish gasping for air. But what could he say? Rossi was right._

_He was dead because of him. He was dead because Reid was too much of a coward to fight back._   
  


_Rossi’s hand tugged harder on his hair, bringing Reid’s face inches from his. Cold radiated from his pale skin but no breath came from his lips._

_“It’s your fault.”_

_The tears that had gathered in Reid’s eyes finally fell as a heavy stone of self-loathing settled in his gut._

_“I’m sorry,” he cried. “I’m sorry!”_

_Rossi pulled viciously on his hair, causing Reid to let out a sharp sound of pain._

_“Sorry isn’t going to bring me back to life,_ Cucciolo _,” he spat the usually affectionate nickname venomously. “I should’ve let him kill you.”_

_A new hand landed on the back of Reid’s neck and ghosted down his spine. The voice that followed made his blood run cold._

_“It’s time for you and me to have some fun.”_

•••

Reid jolted awake in his wheelchair, head whipping around to examine his surroundings.

He wasn’t in a dark trauma room, but a brightly lit recovery room. There was no sigh of the emotionless doctor or Wilkins. Rossi was in the bed before him, but his skin was a healthy color and his chest rose and fell with life as he breathed.

Reid heaved a sigh of relief. It was just a dream.

As if on queue, Rossi began to stir. Reid reached out and hesitated for just a moment before he took his hand.

“Rossi?”

The older agent’s eyes blinked open somewhat sluggishly. His pupils under half-mast lids were clear and dark.

“Spencer?” His voice was hoarse, but nowhere near what it had been in Reid’s dream. “That you?”

Reid nodded.

“Yeah, it’s me, Rossi.”

Rossi smiled at him as he opened his eyes the rest of the way. He lifted his hand and Reid released it so the older agent could cup his cheek, thumb ghosting over the livid bruising and gashes closed with butterfly bandages. The color matched that of his own wrists, at least the part that could be seen from under the bandages. His smile faded.

“Oh, _Cucciolo_. Are you okay?”

Reid nodded, if a little stiffly.

“I’m fine.”

Even disoriented, Rossi wasn’t convinced.

“How bad was it?” His face turned stern. “And don’t you dare lie to me.”

Reid dropped his gaze to his lap for a moment.

“My arm and nose are broken. I have four cracked ribs. No internal damage. A lot of bruising.”

Rossi bit his lip, eyes flashing with a mixture of guilt and anger.

“You said you wouldn’t blame yourself,” Reid reminded him.

Rossi shook his head resignedly.

“I know,” he said, “but that doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

Reid smiled despite himself.

“How are you feeling?”

Rossi blew out a breath and looked down at his side.

“Other than the tube in my side draining blood that’s not supposed to be there?” he said sarcastically. “Oh, I’m peachy.”

It was meant as a joke, but Reid still felt a stab of guilt. He had to say it. It was now or never.

“I’m sorry.” His voice was barely above a whisper.

“What was that?”

“I’m sorry,” Reid repeated, louder this time.

Rossi furrowed his brow in confusion.

“What are you sorry for?”

Reid couldn’t meet the older agent’s eyes when he spoke.

“This is my fault.” He gestured vaguely in the direction of the tube. “You only antagonized Wilkins because of me. If I had just fought back, this never would have happened.”

Rossi was silent for a moment, several different emotions warring on his face. When he finally spoke again, his tone was serious.

“Spencer, look at me.”

Reid hesitantly lifted his gaze to meet Rossi’s eyes.

“This is not your fault,” the older agent said in a tone that left no room for argument. “Antagonizing Wilkins was my decision and no one else’s. And I would do it again if it meant protecting you.”

Reid shook his head in frustration.

“But if I had just fought back–“

“Stop right there,” Rossi cut him off. “You did fight back, Spencer.”

Reid shrugged.

“It wasn’t enough.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Rossi’s voice rose just slightly, but there was no ill-intent behind it. “What matters is that you did. And I am so damn proud of you for trying.”

Reid felt a surge of emotion at Rossi’s words, but still didn’t meet his eyes. The older agent sighed.

“I see how it is,” he said. “So I don’t get to blame myself, but you do, is that it?”

Reid finally looked up.

“It’s not your fault,” he said.

“It’s not your’s either,” Rossi retorted.

Reid averted his eyes again. Maybe Rossi did have a point. The double standard wasn’t fair, but still...

“You’re really okay?”

Rossi smiled victoriously.

“Yeah, kiddo, I’m really okay. Too fucking old for this, but okay. Not that I’m old, of course.”

Reid laughed as Rossi chuckled.

“Alright,“ the older agent opened the arm on his good side, “come here, give an old man a hug.”

Reid smirked.

“I thought you weren’t old.”

“Shut up. Get in here.”

Reid smiled as he laid his head down on Rossi’s good shoulder. The older agent rested his hand in his hair, gentle but firm.

“I love you, _Cucciolo_ ,” he said, voice suddenly sober. “You know that, right?”

Reid nodded, feeling his eyes grow wet.

“I know. I love you too.”

They stayed like that a moment before Reid pulled away and sat back up. He then watched in bewilderment as Rossi carefully shifted his body so that he was lying on one side of the bed.

“What are you doing?” Reid asked.

Rossi looked up at him as if the answer was obvious.

“Come on, you’re obviously exhausted, and I’m sure it’s more comfortable than your chair.” He pursed his lips for a moment. “Besides, I don’t think either of us want to be alone right now.”

Reid considered the offer. Rossi was right, he was exhausted and the bed would be more comfortable. And he was a lot less likely to have any more nightmares when he was with someone.

“Okay,” he finally said.

Rossi smiled.

“Good.”

He lifted the blanket, allowing Reid to crawl in next to him. The young agent immediately curled into his side and put his head back down on his shoulder.

“Hey, kiddo?” Rossi called softly when Reid was settled.

“Yeah?”

“I’m going to make you the best Carbonara á la Rossi you’ve ever had when we get out of here. You deserve it.”

Reid chuckled.

Rossi curled his hand around the back of the young agent’s head and pressed a kiss to his forehead, keeping his lips against it when he spoke.

“Get some sleep, _Cucciolo_.”

Reid had no nightmares that night.

•••

He got up.

He went to work.

He went home.

That was how it used to be, but no one saw him then.

They did now.

Now he got up.

He paced his cell.

He went to bed.

Jail was boring. There was nothing to do, no one to talk to. They treated him like he was one of the scum in there. He was nothing like them.

At least when his trial finally came, they would send him somewhere that he would get the respect he deserved.

He got up.

He paced his cell.

He went to bed.

He deserved that respect. He had sacrificed his career and killed a man to get it.

He got up.

He paced his cell.

The guards came and brought him to an interview room. A older, dark-haired man in a tailored suit jacket and his left arm in a sling was there waiting for him.

It was one of the FBI agents. The one who had been stabbed. How the hell was he still alive?

“I got better,” the agent answered. Smug son of a bitch.

“What are you doing here?”

“Well, Rob,“ the agent shortened his first name with a smirk, “I want to know why. Why get up one day and decide to start a riot?”

Wasn’t it obvious?

“Nobody saw me,” Summers told him. “Nobody gave me the respect I deserved. They will now.”

The agent tipped his head back and laughed. Not just laughed, guffawed.

“What the hell’s so funny?”

The agent pretended to wipe a tear of mirth from his eye.

“Sorry, I just find it hilarious that you actually believe that.”

Summers felt rage bubble up in his chest.

“I will be respected,” he shouted. “Look what I did!”

“What exactly did you do?” the agent asked, unfazed. “Because from where I’m sitting, it’s not a whole lot. Let’s see...” He leaned back in the chair that he was sitting in and looked off into the distance, as if remembering. “You killed your coworker. Sure, happens all the time. But then, and this is the part that I find funny, you sent the inhabitants of A-Block to do your dirty work by killing my partner and I, but they didn’t even succeed. So, Rob, I reiterate, what exactly did you accomplish?”

Summers opened his mouth to retort, but found that he was speechless. The agent smiled.

“That’s what I thought,” he said. “So you can forget about that notoriety that you think you’ll get in prison, especially when your fellow inmates discover who you really are. You were a prison guard, so I think you know the answer to my next question. Tell me, Rob, who do prisoners hate more than anyone else in the prison?”

A stone of dread settled itself in Summers’ gut when the answer came to him immediately.

“That’s right,” the agent said with a unsympathetic smirk. “Prison guards. Oh, they are gonna love you there.” He stood up from his chair and meandered to the door as he spoke. “Well, this has been fun, but I’m afraid that that’s all the time I have today. But, Rob, I encourage you to enjoy the rest of your life.” He let out a light laugh. “Well, at least for such time as your fellow inmates decide to prolong it. I’ll see you at the trial.”

The agent never looked back as he left the room, satisfied smirk firmly on his face.

•••

_“The fathers shall not be put to death for the children, neither shall the children be put to death for the fathers: every m_ an shall be put to death for his own sin.” – Deuteronomy 24:16


End file.
